The Kid retired today. And with him went a part of me...and
my youth. Life is a whirlwind, one that catches you by the throat and doesn't let go. It wasn't so long ago that I remember waking up on Saturday mornings listening to my dad and mom rehash who died, who retired, and who's about to do one or the other from their own youth. Part of my laughed thinking "I'm glad my favorite players are still playing. Must suck to be them." in a way that only a 10 year old can.
Growing up, Ken Griffey Jr. was my hero. Though even a flacid liking of baseball for me was cremated years ago by fake home runs, roids, and greed, Griffey will always hold a special place in my heart. When I played tee ball, or catch in the yard, I'd pretend to be anyone BUT Griff, because I didn't wanna disrespect a guy I worshipped by dropping a ball or swinging at a bad pitch. I had a stuffed Ken Griffey Jr. in my bed. An autographed ball. I collected every single Griffey baseball card until it got a little wierd to be my age and collecting baseball cards.
To be frank, Griffey won't go down as the greatest player of all time. He might not even go down as the best of our generation. And with no World Series appearances in a sport dominated by only a few teams having a chance every year, he won't go down as the greatest winner either. But he will go down as something these days more rare than being lumped into an endless water cooler, beer pitcher, outside the outhouse at a concert with 55 other dudes conversation. He'll go down as a guy to be looked up to, right or wrong. 
Sports, and baseball in particular, has become so tattooed with negative that we search like parched convicts in the desert for any sign of water before we keel over and go the way of Lindsay Lohan's career. That is, rotting for 5 weeks cadeavor type dead. We search for reasons to keep believing, so hard.
Griffey was different. He was guarded, but polite. When the late 30s crowd was somehow getting markedly better at baseball, he was breaking down and falling apart. The normal run of things for a human being, leaving the best years of their lives in the twilight as they hit their 30s. He was a rare breed. He took less money to play for the Reds, because of his family legacy. He was a savior for half his career, and a wounded "what if" for the other half. When Cincy never made good on their promise to surround him with talent, Griffey did what makes him so wonderful to me...he went back "home" via a short detour in Chicago. He so easily humanized his decisions...family, lost youth, you can always go home again...that in a world full of athletes who think they're better than the rest of us, Griffey somehow made us believe in spite of his greatness that he was nothing more...or less...than the dude next door.
I remember the towering shots to the Kingdome, breaking in Safeco Field. I remember when I was a kid, my mom promising me that if I got certain marks on my report card, she'd take me anywhere in the world I wanted to go that summer. What say I? "I want to go to Seattle to see Ken Griffey Jr. play." I don't remember what grades I got, but I know I didn't ever go to Seattle. But soon thereafter, I got lucky. Griffey came to Cincinnati. And every year for every season he was there, a pilgrimige was made to the Queen City to see the man who made me...and so many others even bother liking sports in the first place.
The first time, he was on the DL...and came back for that sole series before going back on it the day after we left. I sat in center, 2 rows up. For me, watching Griffey play was like Al Sharpton watching Barack Obama give the state of the union. Or for like us all to read the obituaries and see Rosie O'Donnell's name in a corner.
As a fan, I resigned to this last year, when he spoke of ending his career where it started. It was like that moment in a long relationship where you realize it can't continue much longer, and the train wreck that ensued would wash away the fond memories like rocks in the sand during a high tide. It was something I never wanted to see, but knew I must. 
As age tugs on us all until we topple, it brings down with it the faded memories of when times were easier and when our favorite athletes, actors, and childish idols were invincible, with hats flipped backwards and fly balls just a Sportscenter top 10 dive away. No one, not even "guys who did it the right way" like Griffey can circumvent the inevitable. Which is sadly, after all the injuries and the sordid end to his career, what will be written most favorably on his baseball tombstone.
I think back to those days, the better times, laughing at my dad because his boyhood heroes were broken down memories, and I recall in the height of my baseball fan-hood passion watching a movie about the sport in God's land...or Cooperstown, NY...where midway through the movie, a ghost version of Babe Ruth echoes to a little boy "heroes get remembered, but legends never die." Griffey was my hero and my legend all in one. There will never be another, especially in these days. Surely in an effervescent way, Griffey will be a legend and never, ever die. But just like that, parallel to youth, at the same time he no longer exists. In times of strife or in times of greatness, my mother always reminded me that "nothing lasts forever." When it comes to Ken Griffey Jr., that's too damn bad.